No metaphores
by Woefulfireflies
Summary: Drabble on the subject of the first couple of weeks Belle spends in the castle. I suppose elements could be described as somewhat fluffy. Make of the title what you will.


"Well, it sounds a lot better than dungeon!"

Belle was shoved into the cell, confused frown still on her face, the insane giggle ringing in her ears. She shouted and wailed, shook the door as best she could, but it was to no avail. He wasn't going to let her out any time soon. She sighed, and sat down on the pile of hay she presumed to be the bed. The cell was dark, empty and cold, and she shivered in her dress. There was nothing in it, save the hay she was sitting on and a bucket in the corner. She wondered how long she was expected to stay here.

It felt odd to be disappointed by imprisonment, but she was. Well, it wasn't imprisonment, she _had_ after all volunteered, but she had expected something grander than being shoved into a cell before seeing the actual castle. She didn't know what it looked like, but from someone as theatrical as her new master she knew it had to be impressive. Nothing less would do. But still, here she was. Here as his what, housekeeper? That was what he had said. The way he'd said it, though. No. She was to look after the estate, and nothing else. And there was nothing metaphorical about estates, was there? Absolutely not. She shook her head violently, and shivered a little. The dungeon really was chilly.

In another and somewhat more comfortable part of the castle, Rumplestiltskin was staring into a mirror. This was not because he particularly enjoyed his reflection, though he seldom found much wrong with it, but rather because he was watching his new caretaker slash prisoner slash prize. She really was quite something, volunteering to go with him like that, to go so far as to arguing her way into such self sacrifice. Oh but she was a brave one. He liked that in a woman. Or caretaker, oh yes. Wading through the dust in some of the more neglected floors of the castle was going to be a grand and frightening adventure indeed.

He cocked his head to the side, studied her. She fidgeted. A lot. Her hands were in her hair, twining it, in the hay, trying and failing to braid it, on the jewels on her dress, picking and poking and accidentally ripping one off, stuffing it into the heap of hay. She began to shiver visibly. He twirled a finger, releasing a small burst of yellow light, the magic of fire, letting its warmth flow from him to her, to her cell. She would be of no use whatsoever if she fell ill.

She had just brought him tea, and first thing she had managed to do was of course to break his china. Naturally, that was what all decent caretakers did on their first day, was it? Admittedly she had not been ready for his rather... bizarre sort of humour, but she should still be able to hold a cup of tea. Why was she even worrying so much about this?

He found himself watching her more often, both in real life and in his magical mirrors. It seemed somehow fairer to her to not use the mirrors, though, so he kept finding excuses to be in the parts of the castle she was cleaning. He had had her clean the library more often and thoroughly than was strictly necessary, if only because he liked to watch her move. After all, what _was_ the point of having such a charming young woman as a caretaker if he couldn't-

She seemed to enjoy the library, though, and took frequent pauses to look through rare volumes. He had asked her whether she enjoyed reading and she had jokingly replied that she thought the pages could do with a bit of dusting. He had smiled at that, his giggle somewhat less theatrical than usual. After that she spent a lot more time reading than cleaning. He didn't mind. He enjoyed watching her expression change as she read. She read rather animatedly, frowning when confused, biting her lip when worried and smiling at every happy ending. When finding books on the histories of both this and more distant lands she asked questions, and he would invariably answer with some vaguely related anecdote. She didn't seem to mind her original queries going unanswered, and looked with a kind of awe upon him. She followed his elaborate gestures rapturously, taking in every detail of his often wildly unbelievable (but always always true, he swore) tales.

Belle found it difficult to think of herself as anything like a prisoner. She felt appreciated and happy, like a friend who borrowed all the books and did all the cleaning and cooking. She felt almost like a- Not quite there, no. But he made her feel welcome, and didn't seem to mind her shamelessly going through his almost endless bookshelves. There were so many stories, so much to learn in there, and she found it hard to believe that he had read it all as he claimed. But then, he did seem to have quite a lot of time on his hands. As far as she knew he had not left the castle to make any more deals in the six weeks since he had brought her there. He spent most of his time spinning at the wheel, or reading or writing in the library. She had asked what he wrote in that heavy, chained shut book of his, but he had neglected to answer it, saying that even monsters needed their secrets.

It rather bothered her, the way he referred to himself. She had few illusions about him being the nicest of persons; after all she had known whose help her father sought, but she could not help but incredibly sad when he referred to himself as that. It seemed to her that his almost inhuman looks were but another part of his elaborate self construction, creating an image so overwhelming that one couldn't get to whatever it was that lay underneath, that was his soul. She felt fairly certain that his visage was something he was unable to adjust, regardless of his powerful magic, but that did not negate the fact. And even if she did not quite dare to speak it, she hoped he noticed how much it cracked her heart when he spoke so terribly of himself.

"Tell me, Rumplestiltskin," she asked, encouraged at last by yet another of his comments, "what have you ever done that was monstrous?"

He looked up at her, frowning.

"I did, ah, force you to come here, dearie, to give up everything and everyone you ever loved."

"You gave me a chance to finally be brave, to save my village. I did love everyone, but now I know that they are safe. You freed me from an arranged marriage, and in taking away one freedom gave me another." She paused for breath, trying to gauge his reaction. He seemed uncertain, waiting.

"And besides," she added, smiling, "I have never seen such an amazing library in my life, that alone makes it worth it."

That brought a genuine smile to his face. Small, but true, not one of his wild grins. And it was the most human she had ever seen him look and she adored it. Not sure how to follow it up, her gaze wandered down towards the novel that had until recently occupied her.

"I am glad you've found something more stimulating than cleaning to do, dearie," he remarked, half mockingly. She blushed, and moved to get up, but he gestured for her to stay. "The dust won't go away, finish your book."

She smiled, and did as he bid, but on her way to bed that night noticed that the castle was almost spotless, even in rooms she hadn't yet started cleaning out.

**AN:** This is what happens when Carlyle breaks his twitter deals. I drabble. I even try my hand at a little dialogue when given bravery enough by sleep deprivation and coffeine. Also, the amounts of hits in this fandom is ridiculous.


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